


At Pitiless the Mercy Of

by Ani



Series: Unclose Me (The Falls) [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a trick to their layout, in that it was impressively easy to eavesdrop on the front door from their stairs. Mary didn’t mean to, it was just, when she saw the mysterious Sherlock at the door she’d paused, to take him in, and then she saw the way he smiled at John, at her John, like John was his John, and something in her stilled and grabbed the banister and watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Pitiless the Mercy Of

            Something was different in her John.

            Mary often imagined their relationship to be like an old dance, like a Victorian waltz: John had stepped toward her one day, to hold her, reassuringly, and they slowly stepped together, taking turns leading, hands clasped, his chest warm against her cheek, but there were rows of steps - and at the end of the line they would have to let go. And John would very slowly step back, and turn away, and twist in place with a look like he was vanishing, and when they rejoined he would be cold and quiet and it would take patience to pry him out of that dark space back into the dance.

            It was a rather extended metaphor, but Mary liked it, because it made it neither of their faults. John wasn’t distant and she wasn’t failing him, it just _was._ It meant she was allowed to be impatient, and worry. It meant she could curse when he gently pulled out her chair and handed her a hot cup of chamomile tea and listened attentively to her day when they both knew he was rolling some stupid boulder up some damned hill he refused to share with her.

            And of course people changed. _She_ was changing every day, from one person to two, two people with one body and the second unknown and quickening. Naturally, with a new marriage and a baby on the way they must sometimes clumsily bump into each other as strangers, like paper dolls. And John now had his old best friend returning from the grave. That was going to confuse anyone’s time of it. She knew they were talking, quite frequently, but not in person: brief messages passing like ships in the night. She knew if she mentioned the name of Sherlock John would flinch, looking suddenly guilty, or angry, or concerned. And sometimes she spoke the name – it became _a name_ , a mysterious invocation like the hidden name of a devil or God, too serious to be spoken plainly – sometimes when she said, _that Sherlock,_ John would get this slow deep smile reaching out of his heart, sneaking onto his face and grinning like a new sun.

            She imagined that his thoughts where rolling around in his skull like their daughter was playing in her womb, that sudden brief stroke of other-flesh against the inside of her skin, and that it would suddenly ripple through _his_ skull, and they’d both see it and laugh, and John would say, “hurry, hurry,” and she’d feel it and know something.

            This change in him, she didn’t understand. They fumbled for words together, out of step, out of tune. When Mary left to get the groceries for dinner, hefting herself up with her palms pressed against the table, John wiped the table off a third time, and took different mugs down. He had a crease between his eyes that seemed permanent. Mary had joked, gently, because it looked like he was preparing for the Queen, if they needed the china, or candles. And John had barked no, seriously, strongly, before instantly apologizing and offering to draw her a hot bath. Mary politely declined and insisted on going for their ingredients. Sorry for driving you ‘round the bend, John had said, the self-deprecating eliminating the last of his brief snap, and she’d patted his hand and smiled at him and grabbed her purse.

            Whatever step he was on now, he didn’t need her.

 

 

            There was a trick to their layout, in that it was impressively easy to eavesdrop on the front door from their stairs. Mary didn’t mean to, it was just, when she saw the mysterious Sherlock at the door she’d paused, to take him in, and then she saw the way he smiled at John, at her John, like John was _his_ John, and something in her stilled and grabbed the banister and watched.

            The mysterious Sherlock was nothing like she’d been anticipating: dark hair and pale skin, so bone tall, with a face that was sharp and beautiful, with eyes that glimmered like water and steel. He looked startling and bizarre, until you looked again, and then he was gorgeous but in the way a statue is, untouchable, and cold. Until he’d smiled. The smile made him look even stranger but infinitely more human. He was in an impressively slim black suit and plum shirt, and holding flowers, a crush of white snowdrop splattered with red carnations. He held them out to John, with a smirk, eyebrow raised, and John had quietly said something she couldn’t hear, and then Sherlock had laughed and smiled. And the smile was gentle, and warm, and incredibly intimate, from a world that was only occupied by him and the man he was offering it to, and there was a look in Sherlock’s eyes that… that didn’t take a genius to deduce.

            She stared at her feet as she clattered loudly downstairs, announcing her arrival.

 

 

 

            Then they were seated for dinner.

            Sherlock had been a flurry of kindness when she’d rounded the counter; John leaning back away from him, and Mary politely pretended she didn’t notice. Sherlock offered her the flowers and introduced himself and said he was delighted to meet her, that he’d heard _so_ much about her from John. It was all graceful, effortless charm, in a deep voice like a droll cello. He had flowers, and wine, and thanked John for cooking. Neither of them had said it was John’s doing, but Mary knew enough stories of Sherlock’s observational magic and anyway, it was John’s favourite curry. Which Sherlock surely knew. She realized, in a way she’d always known but had never seemed altogether significant, that Sherlock had spent _years_ with John, had _lived_ for years with John, that Sherlock must know John better than she did. That perhaps she had only wife-wisdom separating them, and that, _that_ , she was no longer sure of at all.

            She was no longer hungry.

            Sherlock continued a litany of compliments on their décor, of Mary’s glowing health, of her most recent reading choice (left in the parlour couch, which he must have glanced at), until John handed him a wine glass and said, “Cut it _out_ , Sherlock.”

            “Hmm?” The man froze, looking at John expectantly. It made Mary think of a puppy awaiting better orders. Mary saw his eyes dance around John’s face, a sharp focus to his eyes. The genial grin slipped away and reappeared the angular, almost predatory man she’d first seen at the door.

            “You can’t pretend,” John said, with a gentle patience. “Not if this is going to work. She has to know who you are.”

            “Ah. I’d assumed…” he drifted off, turning his stare to Mary, who felt suddenly sliced, and wholly unliked it.

            “No. That’d be good, normally, but she won’t judge you snappily. It’s better for her to know the truth from the first.”

            “Of course,” Sherlock said. He was still staring at her. She stared back, watching the conversation take place between them that was only minutely in words, like they were characters in a very Godot play. “I understand.”

            “She’s plenty intelligent,” John said, which Mary felt was a rather insulting clarification, “and kind enough to take you on, but only if you don’t lie.”

            “Molly?”

            “Yes.”

            “Mm,” Sherlock said. He gave Mary a brief, tight smile, and then focused back on John as if she didn’t exist. “We should talk privately.”

            “No. Later.”

            “ _‘Make work?’_ ”

            “Your friendship, as you are my best friend and she my wife.”

            “Sufficient for now.”

            “ _For awhile_.”

            “Excuse me,” Mary said, “but exactly what is going on?”

            “Sorry, dear,” John said, obviously summoning his powers of pleasantry. He smiled at her and removed the lid from the curry dish. Steam roiled through the air. He sat down and unfolded his napkin and there was an obvious stillness until Sherlock leaned forward and served himself.

            “Excuse me,” he said, “for communicating elliptically. John, the -”

            John was already handing him the pepper.

            “A bit of old habit. I’m sure you’ve heard John’s theatrical renditions of our – John, did you-”

            “No, I forgot to put cilantro on the list.”

            Mary set her fork down calmly.

            “Stop it,” she said. “I know what you’re doing and stop it.”

            Both men looked at her.

            “Displaying your obvious familiarity,” she said. “Showing off. Marking your territory.”

            John continued to frown at her, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow, leaned forward. She realized how much of a stranger he was, a story-character from a forgotten past brought to living flesh. She realized how little she really knew of him. Of John’s time with him. John who was perfectly, beautifully ordinary, smart and handsome and strong but kind and everyday, not like this man, who was all flashing blade. Mary wondered what ordinary John would have to do with it. What he would want with ordinary John. She knew, then, that there was more missing than she’d even just realized.

            “You _are_ smart.”

            It’d taken a few years to realize that nursing wasn’t where she wanted be, but she’d originally gone into it because it seemed the perfect combination of people and science. And Mary had a scientific outlook. Which was something, she’d discovered, that had surprisingly little to do with intelligence or avocation, although there were natural biases to make you think so, by noticing that many of the obviously intelligent possessed these skills, and then assuming that was the limit of the statistical pool. No, it was something that one could learn, or come to naturally, and it was the one thing that made the largest difference to a life. It was something she was better at than John. There were red lines in the world, of pure data, that cut through bias and inclination and supposition and morality. To see them one had to give up on ego, and the desire to be correct about one’s thoughts rather than be correct in one’s thoughts, and to pursue them one had to disregard quite a lot of rules.

            John was good at that part. If he found or was given the right conclusion, John could ignore a lot of personal pain, and sacrifice, and even the pain of others, to make it happen. Mary couldn’t. She just couldn’t, at the end of the day, and that’s why she had to stop working with children who sometimes died.

            But John couldn’t see the lines, at least, not consistently. He was too wedded to his kindness, to his sense of duty and natural inclination and the indulgence of self-righteousness. Mary could.

            The evidence she had was that Sherlock was incredibly intelligent, that he used those skills in ways the world hadn’t seen before, to the degree he was capable of, that he didn’t care about being nice, that he was willing and able to act nice, and that he was willing of a deeper level of psychological manipulation that was breathtakingly masterly, only, he hadn’t tried hard because he didn’t assume much of her, which meant his earlier statement of having heard so much about her already was a lie.

            Which meant that Sherlock saw the lines, and could easily act upon them, in a manner that was above the greatest Mary could ever in her life grasp at.

            Now she wondered if Sherlock had _known_ she was spying on the stairs, if the display hadn’t been an act but _had_ been for her benefit as well as John’s, if he was wanting to show her. Which meant John _didn’t_ want her to know, but Sherlock did – either out of impatience or kindness to her. Which meant John thought he was being kind, by protecting her from the truth.

            The truth that, obviously, the two men had once had a deep, _deep_ connection, though she couldn’t yet know of what sort, and furthermore, that Sherlock still felt it, and wanted to act upon it, which was why he was laying claim over John. Telling Mary, he knew better, and he had John, in a way she didn’t.

            The question was what John felt.

            It occurred to her that it was funny, wasn’t it, that she could guess this much about a relative stranger but not be able to know about her own _husband_ , but that was it too – if you played games you could recognize other game players (and Sherlock was obviously a grand master), but because John didn’t, you couldn’t tell if he was doing things genuinely or for an aim, or if he was even aware of the difference at the moment. And anyway he was almost always genuine. And anyway there was something in him below that he hid from her and they both knew it but had never said so. And Mary had assumed, war, and gone on with things. A mistake: conclusion without sufficient data. Sloppy, _sloppy_ , thinking.

            It occurred to Mary that all these thoughts were taking awhile to think and that absolute silence had descended on the table, that Sherlock was still watching her carefully, and that John was too, with terrible concern and an obvious guilt.

            “He’s not good at hiding things,” she said finally, to Sherlock.

            “He doesn’t feel he needs to around you,” he answered. A pause. “Doesn’t feel that he should.”

            “What’s my middle name?”

            “Sorry? If you’re asking me to deduce something it will have to-”

            “I want to know how much you know.”

            “That’s hardly indicative of how much John’s told me about you.”

            “We’re considering it as a name for our daughter.”

            He grimaced. “Damn.”

            She pressed her fingers into her hips, feeling tired, feeling swam in. “There’s obviously something you two know, that you’re keeping from me. I’m not smart enough to figure out what but I’m smart enough to damn well notice. What’s going on?”

            She did actually have several theories, but most of them were awful.

            John cleared his throat, pursed his lips, looked like he was going to say something and then didn’t.

            “This is going well,” Sherlock told him. “She was a good choice.”

            “Ah, no,” John said. “No, this is going so not well that well is not a word we should even utter.”

            “Are you working with him?” Mary demanded. “Like you used to?”

            “No,” Sherlock answered, while John shook his head.

            A pause. “Are you having sex with him?”

            “No,” Sherlock said again, flatly. John looked like was going to throw up.

            “So that’s a _not yet_.”

            “Excuse the topic change, but are you good at reading evidence or people?”

            “People.”

            “Superb.”

            “Are you having an affair with my husband?”

            “Yes.”

            “This,” John said, “is…”

            Mary rose from her chair, as grandly as she could. “I would like to talk to you in private, Sherlock. John can stay and clean up dinner.”

            “Parlour?”

            “Carry my water.”

            Sherlock obediently picked up her glass, after he looked at John and John had nodded yes with a glum, broken impression, and she walked out, and left him behind.


End file.
